Of another

yes there is a place where i go,
surrounded, muted.
A jigsaw breaks, the blood, or the water flows...

Every stone i own, in the hands of another,
Yet in my grasp, or by my side, they stay.
useless points of view, festering, awaiting validation.
unheard of, unspoken of, except by the presence of another.
I hear you, i see you, i smell you, the fluids I can taste.
yet here i lay, unable to respond.
I feel it, but never can I say.

I let this happen
as not to cause offence
or break the pattern, which was supposedly sent
or say things that mean nothing
but more reasons to hurt,
And yet another reason, to listen.

sometimes i doubt anything i do is beautiful to anyone except me, its quite difficult to achieve satisfaction in expression when for me there's a slight fear that what i do or say is wrong or misleading to anyone. its nice for you to mention my work as beautiful, and its enough to keep me from reacting to what i wrote in this poem as something i shouldn't of written, or regretted posting. thank you. :hug: